Lincoln and Douglass’s Last Encounter

As the presidential coach plowed through thick mud on Pennsylvania Avenue, Frederick Douglass sensed danger. The editor and abolitionist activist began walking as closely behind as he could, studying every onlooker for a hint of conspiracy. When they reached the Capitol for Lincoln’s Second Inaugural without incident, a relieved Douglass joined the vast crowd, finding a place in front of the East Portico.

From a balcony above the speaker’s stand, John Wilkes Booth stood watching the President’s speech too.

When Lincoln appeared, Douglass was close enough to believe a look passed between him and the president (Lincoln had actually not been in the carriage during the parade, having arrived at the Capitol hours before to sign bills). The two men had met in the White House twice, with Douglass pushing Lincoln to improve the treatment of black soldiers — which included Douglass’ own sons — and to hold strong to antislavery measures. Douglass had been surprised at the respect the president had shown him, as well as Lincoln’s boldness in asking how the Union could get more black people quickly out of the South if the war was going to be lost – as it seemed it might, for a few months in 1864. But the subsequent fall of Atlanta made such measures unnecessary, and those bleak days were now a memory. Lincoln had been reelected.

Remarkably, as the president came forward, sun broke through the clouds. Lincoln’s speech lasted perhaps only seven minutes and became, as historians have called it, one of America’s greatest sermons. Few grasped the radical nature of the address as quickly as Douglass. He felt he was hearing the president express themes difficult for a war weary North to grasp as the conflict neared its conclusion.

In a solemn tone, Lincoln stated that though all had wished war would end, “If God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said ‘the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.’”

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Frederick DouglassCredit Library of Congress

Douglass had never heard a president say something like this. At the start of the war, Douglass had called slavery our national sin, writing, “Whatever a man soweth, that shall he reap.” He had traveled across the North, telling all who would listen that this suffering had to be for a larger redemption of the country through the ending of slavery forever. But Lincoln, at first, didn’t seem to agree. The president had set out to save the Union, along with the idea that democracy could endure crisis. His personal aversion to slavery aside, Lincoln said repeatedly that his actions were only done to help defeat the rebellion.

Yet this day, Douglass heard the president say the shedding of blood was somehow linked to America’s brutal institution and the larger meaning of the war. Four years before, the two men were clearly in a contest of will for what this conflict would be about. This was the moment that their two understandings of the war melded.

Though he knew of no black person who had ever done this before, Douglass resolved to attend the White House inaugural reception that evening, which, unlike today, was open to the public. As he tried to enter the president’s mansion, a pair of brawny policemen grabbed Douglass’s arms and pushed him back. Douglass did not back down. When they said their directions were to admit no people of color, Douglass retorted, “No such order could have emanated from President Lincoln,” and further, that “if he knew I was at the door he would desire my admission.” They told Douglass to follow them through a passageway. Moments later, Douglass realized this had been a trick and he was being led out another way.

Douglass declared that he would not leave without seeing Lincoln. When a passerby recognized him, Douglass told the gentleman to let Lincoln know of his predicament. It worked. Douglass was soon walking into the elegant East Room. Amid the gold, silks and resplendent guests towered Lincoln in his “grand simplicity.”

For the second time that day, Lincoln and Douglass’s eyes caught each other. The president called out loud enough for those near him to hear, “Here comes my friend Douglass.” Douglass weaved his way to Lincoln’s side. The President took his hand, saying, “I am glad to see you. I saw you in the crowd today.” Lincoln asked Douglass how he liked it.

Douglass responded, “Mr. Lincoln, I must not detain you with my poor opinion, when there are thousands waiting to shake hands with you.”

Lincoln replied, “No, no.” He added, “You must stop a little, Douglass; there is no man in the country whose opinion I value more than yours.” He asked Douglass’ judgment again.

Douglass related exactly what he felt: “Mr. Lincoln, that was a sacred effort.”

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In less than two months, the war would be over. So too would be the president’s life. Under the conception of the war Lincoln had finally accepted, in some sense, he too had been held to this harsh fate, paying for blood drawn by the lash. Douglass was back home in Rochester when he heard the news. He wandered into a packed meeting at City Hall and sat alone in the back.

After a few speakers, the crowd called for Douglass. He struggled as he looked out at the anguished crowd. Since he heard the news he had felt wordless. But Douglass rose, and without notes, told them that this was both a personal and national calamity – to lose this president who had taken a deep interest in the elevation of black people. Douglass said, “It may be in the inscrutable wisdom of Him who controls the destinies of Nations, that this drawing of the Nation’s most precious heart’s blood was necessary to bring us back to that equilibrium which we must maintain if the Republic was to be permanently redeemed.”

Douglass spoke of having seen Lincoln just weeks before, and he recited a passage from the Second Inaugural Address from memory. The rest of the crowd sat in rapt silence, as one great orator mourned another. But in Lincoln’s death, there was consolation: Douglass believed that, white and black, he and his listeners shared a grief that made them “more than countrymen, it made us kin.”

Paul Kendrick is the co-author of “Douglass and Lincoln: How a Revolutionary Black Leader and a Reluctant Liberator Struggled to End Slavery and Save the Union” and “Sarah’s Long Walk: The Free Blacks of Boston and How Their Struggle For Equality Changed America.”

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